


Tender Care

by jojo_siwa_car



Category: C. Auguste Dupin - Edgar Allan Poe, POE Edgar Allan - Works
Genre: Dupin/Narrator if you squint, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Short & Sweet, sprained ankle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24911389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojo_siwa_car/pseuds/jojo_siwa_car
Summary: A misstep at a crime scene results in a sprained ankle for Dupin. Luckily he has someone there to patch him up.
Relationships: C. Auguste Dupin & Narrator, C. Auguste Dupin/Narrator
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Tender Care

We had been scuttling about investigating yet another of Monsieur G.’s crime scenes resulting from a mystery that vexed the entirety of the Parisian police when it happened.

Dupin, unknowingly edging far too close to the ledge of a balcony made from rotted wood, came crashing to the ground several feet below as the wood gave out below him with a soft grunt of pain.

Recovering from my shock, as Dupin rarely even stumbled, his analytical mind far too observant to miss even a slight dip in the road, I rushed to the side of the balcony, careful not to step too close, and peered over the edge.

“Dupin?” I called, a twinge of fear in my voice.

“I’m alright,” he responded, though his voice was hoarse with pain. I watched as he took a sharp inhale, his hand ghosting over his right ankle, which, even from this height, appeared to be twisted at an angle.

“Hold on, I’m coming down there.” I descended the stairs quickly and with an air of urgency, throwing open the front door and making my way to the back of the small house, rushing to my partner’s side.

I fell to my knees next to him, taking note of his paler than average complexion and the fact that his lips were pressed tightly together in a line. His signature green spectacles lay shattered several feet away. He lifted up his trouser leg, revealing the swollen, bruised flesh of his ankle, which shocked me because the injury had been sustained mere minutes ago. I slowly drew his hands back from the injured joint, and he let out a pained hiss as I gently pressed my hands to the injury.

“Anything else hurt?” I asked him, fearful of the reply.

“No,” replied Dupin. “I reckon I just twisted my ankle as I fell.”

Standing up, I extended my hand to him, hoisting him up as he took it. He winced as he applied pressure to his right foot, and I wrapped my arm over his shoulder. He leaned heavily on me, though I didn’t mind considering his slight frame.

We slowly hobbled our way through the Parisian streets, Dupin trying to mask his pain while he limped along.

As we entered No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain, I eased Dupin into his accustomed arm-chair, and he grimaced as he brought his right leg close to him, gently untying and removing his shoe. I cringed sympathetically alongside him, the swelling seemingly having increased since I last saw the injury. The joint was mottled with dark purple bruises, and I gave Dupin a concerned glance.

“Shall I fetch a doctor?” I asked. Dupin shook his head.

“I’ve had worse.”

I studied his tense expression, unconvinced.

“There’s bandages under the basin stand.”

I nodded, walking briskly down the hall and retrieving the bandages. I soaked a cloth in warm water left from the tea we made earlier in the morning before returning to Dupin, who was shivering slightly despite still wearing his coat. His face was screwed up in pain, and I gently laid the back of my palm on his forehead, removing it once I was sure he was not running a fever.

I pulled up my own armchair opposite of Dumpin, handing him the soaked cloth as I situated myself in preparing the bandages. He pressed the cloth to the injury, and I pulled out my old, worn pocket watch by the chain, assuring that he kept the compress on his ankle for a long enough interval of time.

“You can take it off now,” I told him after several minutes elapsed in silence. He removed the cloth and I gently bandaged the injured joint, hoping to alleviate as much of the pain as possible.

“Thank you,” Dupin spoke softly, catching me off guard as he broke his silence.

“Of course,” I replied, finishing the bandage. “How are you feeling?”

“Little better,” he said. “Thanks to you.”

I smiled, standing up and offering my hand to him. We stumbled gingerly to Dupin’s bed chamber, Dupin still treating the tender joint with caution. I layed next to him after helping him onto the bed.

I rubbed soft circles on the back of Dupin’s wrist, and after several minutes of peaceful silence, the tenseness eased away from his body. Resting my head on his shoulder, I let out a content sigh of relief as I finally saw the harsh, pained lines on his face disappear as he fell asleep, his breathing evening out.

I settled in next to him, closing my eyes and allowing the adrenaline and weariness of the day’s events to wash over me.

We could solve the mystery later.

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me after I read the C. Auguste Dupin short stories. Hope you enjoyed!


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